


merry-go-round of life

by bombshells



Category: Howl no Ugoku Shiro | Howl's Moving Castle, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Howl's Moving Castle AU, M/M, allura's role is a surprise but i bet y'all are gonna find out, here's your howl's moving castle au you fools, keith the sexy hat maker, most of the characters have really small roles shshhff, shiro's a fool but he's my fool
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15002363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombshells/pseuds/bombshells
Summary: In the bustling town of New Haven lives Keith, a young, orphaned hat-maker, whose life stretches out meaninglessly and endlessly before him. Meanwhile, New Haven’s streets burst with whispers about the wizard Shiro, who dwells amid the mountains of the Waste inside his mysterious moving castle, and is said to be intent on stealing the hearts of handsome young men. Howl’s Moving Castle AU.





	1. Chapter One

 

Long ago, when weapons were shown off like new shoes and battles were as common as sibling spats, there was a country named Ingary. Ingary was much like others of its kind; it had a lovely, musical capital, a stupid king, lively people, and war blossoming on the horizon. Turmoil lurked between the chatter of housewives as they hung their morning laundry and fear dusted the darkened alleyways, but otherwise, the people of Ingary were content despite the battles that shook the air of the countryside and sent sinking ships of the navy to burn in the harbors.

To many, the war was but a distant concern. That was certainly the case in the small mountain town of New Haven- quaint, pleasant, but highly frivolous. War was something mentioned in newspapers ignored in favor of military parades and fanfares. War was little more than propaganda and bluster, an unfounded surety of victory over some distant, harmless enemy. War was something woefully mundane-especially compared to the stories of the witches and wizards who loyally answered the king’s summons, or, more interestingly, stories of those banished to live in the woeful mountains of the Wastes.

Smoke billowed from a chugging locomotive, dispersing its soot into the air and drifting into the windows that were unfortunate enough to be in its passing vicinity. One such window, despite this regular occurrence, was wide open, and the young man seated before it batted at the air as he coughed, before returning to his previous task. In the buttery midday sunshine, he sat crouched on a high stool at his worktable, posture hideous, messy dark hair falling above his violet-blue eyes, which were strained in concentration. In one of his hands was a needle trailing thin pink thread; in the other, an unfinished hat on which he was sowing flowers. All around him stood mannequin stands bearing tens of other finished hats, all conforming to latest styles, embroidered in cheerful, bright colors. The young man, however, was anything but cheerful. His eyebrows were scrunched together as he focused on his sewing, and the corners of his mouth turned down into a grouchy frown. He looked older than his mere twenty-one years.

His small workspace was cramped with his handiwork and materials; rolls of fabric, tall wooden stands, ribbons and boxes of buttons and flowers and petals and pearls. It led out into a small parlor; the front door of which burst open to admit several young people, chattering loudly. He closed his eyes momentarily, his focus on the hat broken.

High-pitched chatter followed him as they entered; the girls, his roommates, coworkers, and foster sisters, had arrived. Ezor, tall and pretty, twirled to show them all her hat, recently bought from the neighboring town but imported from the neighboring country ( _foolish of her_ , the young man thought, _we own a hat shop._ ).

“It’s all the rage in Montalbino,” she said preeningly. She stopped when she saw her foster brother in the workshop. “Oh, hi, Keith! I didn’t see you there.” Her companions followed suit with greetings.

Keith answered with a gruff _hmph_ , absorbed in his work. The girls, mindful of his nature, left him to it, instead deciding to have lunch in the parlor, tea cups clinking against china plates. 

“Keith, we’re going out to see the parade later today,” called Acxa after him. “Do you want to come?”

Keith looked at the clock, then back to his hat. “No, thanks. I’ve got things to do.”

Zethrid snorted. “You sound like an old man. Loosen up a little, will you?”

Keith rolled his eyes, irritated. _It’s not my fault I’m the only person who takes this hat shop seriously._ It sounded pathetic even to himself.

“Look!” shrieked Ezor, pointing to the window. Against his better judgment, Keith looked up to his own. Far beyond the train tracks and the colorful gabled roofs of New Haven, across the river and past the bounds of the town, in the distant mountains, he could make out a faint silhouette of a hulking, smoking building that seemed to be moving as if on legs. “It’s Shiro’s castle!”

Narti, who had nothing to look at (she was blind) tapped her sharp fingernails against the wooden tabletop to alert them that she was going to speak, then signed, _they say he goes around taking lovers and stealing their hearts._

“Everyone’s heard _that_ story,” said Acxa dismissively, ever the realist. “It’s all a bunch of rubbish.”

“I wouldn’t mind having _my_ heart stolen,” Ezor joked, waving her eyebrows suggestively. “I’ve heard he’s a looker.”

Keith restrained himself from rolling his eyes again.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Acxa deadpanned. “He only takes the hearts of the _beautiful_.”

Zethrid hooted as Ezor elbowed Acxa in the gut. Even Keith had to crack a reluctant smile. His foster sisters were annoying, but also endearing to a fault.

He felt Narti’s fingers on his shoulder and turned. _We’re off to the parade,_ she signed. _Are you sure you don’t want to come?_

He placed a hand on hers. “Trust me. I’ll be fine.”

Narti frowned, concerned. Still, she drummed her fingers placatingly on his shoulder and withdrew it.

The shop grew soundless again as the girls gathered their things and left. Keith continued his work. He was good at it. The shop’s business was blooming- his hats were popular, locally, at least.

This particular hat was stumping him, though. The design had looked fine on paper, but applied it just wasn’t working. His frown creased further down into a scowl. Something was wrong.

Zethrid’s voice echoed in his ears. _You sound like an old man._

She wasn’t wrong, he supposed. He did sound like an old man. He felt like one, too… cramming himself in the shop day after day. He knew people his age were busy having fun in parties and chasing girls –well, boys, in his case- and yet, for some reason, none of that held any appeal to him.

Was something wrong with him? He didn’t know. Narti had been implying for a while now that his obsession with the hat shop was bordering on unhealthy, but he was intent on keeping it running smoothly. It was what his parents- who had died in an accident when he was twelve- would have wanted.

The hat still wasn’t going the way he wanted, no matter what he did to it. He set it down impatiently and got up, stretching his arms high above his head.

 _I need a change of scenery,_ he decided. _I’ll visit Hunk._ He grabbed his own hat –astonishingly plain, compared to his handiwork- and set it atop his head, giving himself a cursory look in the oval mirror.

Plain green trousers, suspenders, a white shirt, brown leather shoes, and his hat.

 _I even dress like an old man,_ he thought irritably, pushing the hat further down his head.

He closed up the room and left the building, still rather self-conscious about the whole affair. He made his way through the sunny streets, Hunk’s work address clutched in his hand.

His path led him to a crowded main street, choked with people awaiting the military parade. He ducked beneath them –thank stars, he was rather small- and instead opted to take a shortcut he knew, through a quieter, much emptier alley. The crowd’s cheers were muffled and distant, shafts of sunlight few and far between, the only clear sound the clacking of Keith’s shoes against the cobblestones.

He closed his eyes momentarily. _That’s more like it,_ he thought, at ease.

“Well, well,” a drawling voice said, and Keith’s eyes snapped open. “Look here, Jones, we’ve found ourselves a little mouse!”

Keith exhaled in annoyance. _Soldiers._ They thought everyone believed they were as hot shit as they thought themselves to be. The two were leaning against a nearby building, smiling at him patronizingly.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” called Jones as Keith made to walk past.

“Please leave me be,” Keith said calmly as he attempted to walk past. Jones’ colleague stepped forward, obstructing his way. “I’m not interested.”

“He’s not interested,” said the soldier in fake disappointment. “That’s too bad. I sure am.” He clamped a heavy hand around Keith’s wrist.

Keith flared up in irritation, attempting to yank back his arm.

“I _said_ I’m not interested, you moron!” he snarled.

The soldiers laughed to each other. “A fiery one!” The soldier’s grip on him tightened. Keith’s heart began to race.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then smelled a waft of expensive cologne.

“Darling,” he heard a smooth, deep voice say behind him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

He wanted to pull away, but something about this new voice seemed oddly soothing. He didn’t look around to see who it was. The soldiers were looking at him with an odd mix of fear and confusion.

“Who the heck are-?”

“Now, don’t you have somewhere to be?” said the stranger, and extended a gloved hand, which, Keith noticed, was made of brass, from the gap between where the glove ended and the sleeve of his coat began. The index finger made a little flicking motion. “Off to work.”

The soldiers suddenly straightened, like marionettes, and turned around, marching away like toy soldiers. The stranger chuckled.

Keith turned to look at his benefactor, intending to tell him to get his hands off of him, before – _oh, stars above._ He forgot how to formulate words.

The brass hand settled back on Keith’s shoulder as the man turned his face –his really, really nice face- backwards, his eyes darkening into something a bit unrecognizable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and polite. “I’m afraid you’re involved now.”

“Uh,” said Keith eloquently. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see…things, emerging from the cracks in the cobblestones and out of the gaps between the buildings. “What-?”

“Follow my lead,” said the man Keith was now quite sure was a wizard.

His hands tightened- one on Keith’s shoulder, the other on his elbow- and the man urged him forward. They broke first into a jog, then a run.

“Keep your eyes forward,” the wizard instructed gently.

Squelching sounds came nearby, but Keith heeded his advice. It seemed whatever those slimy black things were, they were gaining on them; they were slowly entering Keith’s line of vision. They slithered forward, clawing their way out of the ground, slowly trapping them in the alley no matter how fast they ran-

“Now, don’t panic,” the wizard said calmly. “We’re going to have to change our mode of travel.”

Keith nodded mutely. At this point, it was ride or die, and either way, he was happy doing either with whoever…this was.

“What are we going to do?” Keith asked, somehow. There was no conceivable escape from the black sludge that now dripped from the walls.

“Just trust me.” The wizard stopped in his tracks, bent his knees, and jumped into the air, taking Keith with him, and somehow they stayed aloft, somehow they stayed airborne, soaring high above the tops of buildings and into the sky. Keith’s heart was going miles a minute, and he was pretty sure having the wizard’s hands now held in his own weren’t helping. He made a high, uncertain sound, which he was rather ashamed of.

“It’s alright,” said the wizard in his ear. His proximity was coloring Keith’s cheeks. “Just- straighten your legs- yes, like that- and _walk.”_

Keith straightened his legs as the wizard did the same –they had been tucked together- and did his best to match the wizard’s footsteps on the air. They were- they were _flying,_ but they were walking, and this made _no sense-_

“Atta boy,” said the wizard approvingly. Keith’s heart fluttered. They were high above New Haven, the buildings the size of building blocks, the people like tiny ants, all the colors blurring into one lovely watercolor painting only he and the wizard were privy to. It was thrilling, it was terrifying, and it was completely alien.  “You’re a natural.”

Keith knew flirting when heard it. Some part of him snorted at the outrageous nerve of this hotshot wizard, and the rest of him was bathing in sunlight, repeating the words _I’m a natural, I’m a natural, I’m a natural_ in his head. The rhythm they were walking at was roughly the rhythm of a waltz – _one two three one two three-_ and Keith, against his own will, smiled.

“Where were you going, before?” the wizard said, lips barely brushing his ear. “I can take you.”

Keith struggled for a moment to remember. “Um, uh…Savea Bakery.”

“Oh, I know that place!” the wizard said delightedly, looking forward once more. He smelled like wildflowers and chimney smoke, an odd mixture that somehow made him all the more enticing. “Wonderful cakes.”

 _You’re wonderful,_ Keith found himself thinking.

They landed momentarily on a pole, then with a push, launched into the air again, then a rooftop, then back into the air. Keith felt like he was dreaming. Was this real? Was this happening to him, Keith, the plain, ordinary hat-maker?

The bakery came into sight all too soon.

“There we are,” the wizard said, and Keith could hear his smile. They floated lower and lower, and finally, alighted on the third floor balcony. The wizard released his hand, and Keith stepped down onto the balcony floor as the wizard remained perched on the rail. One of his hands was still clutched in the brass one. Even though it was made of metal, it was warmer, softer than Keith would have thought.

He finally got a good look at him- tall, broad-shouldered. His face was classically handsome, his eyes dark and mysterious, a tuft of white in the middle of his otherwise short, midnight-colored hair. A long scar ran across his cheeks and nose, and he wore a necklace adorned with a bright blue pendant, along with a ridiculous, colorful jacket that rested loosely on his shoulders.

“You take care of yourself,” he said, smiling conspiratorially, like there was a secret that he and Keith only knew.

“Okay,” Keith said, still dazed. His heart was behaving rather rowdily, hammering inside his chest.

“Perfect,” the wizard said, winking and releasing Keith’s hand (most regrettably). He bent his knees again and jumped off of the balcony railing and into the street below.

_A madman!_

Keith rushed forward, one hand on his hat, leaning on the railing to see where the wizard had gone –surely he was in pieces on the street- but he had disappeared into thin air, like magic.


	2. Chapter Two

“You did _what?”_ Hunk’s voice was high and alarmed.

Keith sat, still in a sort of reverie, against a wall made up of crates of baking supplies. “It’s like I told you.”

Scenes from what had just happened –his strange, wonderful encounter- were replaying in his head, like rewinding film. The wizard who’d saved him and then taken him for a stroll in the sky…he could still feel the ghost of his hands near his elbows.

Keith resisted the urge to smile like a dope, even though he felt a strong inclination to.

Hunk looked anything but impressed. Instead, he looked rather scared. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

They were in the bakery’s back room. The staff had found a rather dazed Keith up on the third floor and had rushed him down to see Hunk, all alarmed over how he’d suddenly just appeared there without ever coming in from the ground floor. Now he and Hunk sat together in the back room. It smelled of vanilla frosting and buttercream. Muffled by the walls was the clamor of customers outside; the bakery was extremely busy at this time of day.

“Of course I’m alright,” Keith said now, trying to shake himself out of his dreamy state. Still, he could not help remembering the deep rumble of the wizard’s voice… “He saved me.”

“He’s a wizard, Keith,” Hunk said warily. “Never trust a wizard, how many times have I told you? I bet it was that no-good wizard Shiro. He could’ve stolen your heart!”

Keith snorted. “He only goes after handsome men.”

Hunk frowned at the self-deprecating insinuation. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty handsome.”

“I make hats for a living, Hunk.”

“No correlation,” Hunk insisted. “You’re a sexy hat maker, Keith.”

“I’m a _what?”_

“I said what I said. Don’t make me say it again. You’re totally sexy enough to get your heart stolen.”

Keith made a face. “That is the most stupid thing you’ve ever said.”

“Because you’re stupid enough to warrant it. Stop mooning after shady wizards-”

“I’m not _mooning after_ him!” spluttered Keith-

“-and have some self-confidence.” He was interrupted as someone pushed out a crate from the wall and poked their head in.

“Hey, Hunk, they’re asking for you,” said the boy.

“I’ll be there in a second,” Hunk said with a dazzling smile. Hunk was the bakery’s favorite employee, and probably the real reason why it was so popular. While the cakes here were tasty, it was Hunk’s natural charm and humor that made him crush material, and thus magnetically attracted young men and women alike. Sometimes, Keith wished he had some of his charisma.

“I’m not like you, Hunk,” Keith said. “I’m not…” he searched for the word. “Likeable.”

“You’re upsetting me, you really are,” Hunk said. “I like you a lot-”

“You like everyone-”

“The girls adore you-”

“I’m their foster brother-”

“Fine, Keith! Have it your way. Nobody likes you,” Hunk said, exasperated. “The only reason you feel like this is because you make yourself. You’re twenty one and your greatest concern is running a hat shop?”

 _It’s a perfectly fine concern to have,_ Keith thought indignantly.

They spent a moment in silence, before Hunk spoke again. “I just want you to be careful. Being reckless with magic folk…”

His voice trailed off. They’d all heard the horror stories of the Waste.

Hunk accompanied him outside. The sun was beginning to set. The air smelled of baking bread and soot.

“Take care of yourself, Keith,” Hunk said earnestly.

“I will,” he assured him. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thanks for visiting. Come back soon, will you?”

And so, Keith walked his way home in the waning sunlight, his mind still reeling with what had happened before. His ear still tingled with the memory of the brush of the wizard’s lips against it, his heart beating rapidly at the mere recollection of the timbre of his voice.

 _A foolish crush,_ he berated himself, _on a total stranger. Get a hold of yourself!_

He climbed aboard the tram and held on to the railing, hanging halfway out of the door and watching as New Haven streets passed him by. He kept a hand on his hat –his simple, no-nonsense hat- so as to not let the wind blow it away.

Would he ever see the wizard again? He doubted it. Yet something fluttered within him when he thought about how someone so special, so wondrous, so…interesting, taking an a liking to him, flirting with him, taking him on an adventure like that…

 _You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time,_ the sensible part of him insisted crossly. _You’re not special. Not enough for somebody like him._

It probably wasn’t even the wizard Shiro. Just some bored guy looking for a bit of fun, and Keith getting caught in the middle. Slowly, as his self-doubt crept in, his good mood began to leak away.

 _You’ve made a fool of yourself,_ he told himself as he dismounted from the tram and walked the remaining distance home. It was night now, the streetlamps lit, the streets empty, everyone home after a long day of fanfares and festivities.

The shop appeared before him –his ordinary shop, _Hawkins Hatter’s_ reading on the sign.

 _Now there’s something to focus on instead of some stupid wizard,_ he thought.

He resolved to get that troublesome hat done before bed as he took out his keys, unlocked the door, let himself in, then locked it again, mind trying its best to settle into the comfortable arena of work. It stayed there as he moved around lighting candles, setting his hat on a hanger. So lost was he in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice that someone was inside the shop with him until he heard the jingle of the door.

He turned, to find a shadowy, veiled figure silhouetted in the doorway. She moved into the light, and Keith internally recoiled at the sight; the customer was astonishingly old, stick-thin frame in a long, oily black dress and feather boa, face hidden beneath a huge black hat that seemed to drip with poison. There was something oddly unsettling about the way her eye- which glowed in the candle-light- seemed to settle on him, but nevertheless, he gathered his spirits and forced himself to greet her as politely as he could.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, resisting the urge to hold his candle closer to her, so as to see her whole face, as half of it was still hidden in shadow. “We’re closed right now. I must have forgotten to lock the door.”

The customer ignored him, looking around the shop with disdain and laughing, a nasty, rasping sound, like old snakeskins rubbing together.

“What a tacky little shop,” she commented. Her eyes turned to Keith. “Perfect for a tacky little boy.”

Keith could have let it slide for the sake of professionalism, had it not been for his bad mood and already short temper. His shop was a line not to be crossed.

“Where do you get off?” he retorted angrily. “I’m going to have to tell you to leave my shop. Now.”

“You stupid boy,” she said. “Do you have any idea that you’re talking to the Witch of the Waste?”

 _Oh, no._ A pause. _You blithering fool._

Her laughter deepened with malice, and she spread her arms, shimmering black fabric hanging like a curtain from each, so that she resembled a bird of prey. She turned suddenly intangible, and swooped towards him, covering him with a strange sense of chilling cold. Keith doubled in on himself, body exploding in pain, beginning to cough. The world begin to turn into a strange haze, and he realized he was losing consciousness.

 “Goodbye, tacky hat-maker,” came the witch’s voice. “You won’t be able to tell anyone about _that_ one.”

 He heard the shop doors jingle as she let herself out. Then the world faded to black.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! I'm sorry for the hold up, but I'm going through a bit of a rough time, mentally speaking, and I also hurt three fingers by 1) cutting one with a kitchen knife 2) slamming the balcony door on them, but I'm fine, I'm fine. I'll try to update when I can. Thanks for all the kudos and lovely kind comments- they mean so much!! (I wouldn't say no to more though wink wonk) anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, next we get Turnip Head, whose identity will be a (fairly predictable) surprise, and a real surprise cameo from some very beloved characters.


	3. Chapter Three

He woke up on the floor, stiff and aching. His body felt strange, different; his joints screamed as he strove to push himself up on one elbow, then the other. His hands shook. What was wrong with him?

He looked around. The world’s colors seemed to have lost saturation, oddly faded; his senses dulled. He pushed himself up to sit and found himself slouched; he tried to straighten his back and felt tremendous pain. _What did that witch do to me?_

With a lot of struggle, he got to his feet unsteadily, coughed a couple of times for no apparent reason. He felt lightheaded and dizzy. He brought his heavily veined hands to push the white of his hair back from his face-

_Wait._

He looked at his hands, watching as they shook for no apparent reason. They were gnarled, veined, scratched –not his hands, which, before, while a bit rough from needlework, had been mostly smooth, the fingers long and slender. These fingers were heavy-knuckled, rheumatic, the fingernails nearly white with wear.

He reached a hand up to his considerably thinner hair and yanked out a couple of hairs, then brought them close to his face to inspect them. Sure enough, they were snow-white. Tentatively, he felt at his face –it felt wrinkled, heavy-jowled, pockmarked. His breath came shallow to him.

Stumbling over his own feet –his very unsteady feet, his unreliable knees- he forced himself into the workroom, in front of the large oval mirror, and screamed –a rheumy, rickety scream.

In the mirror was not twenty-one year old hat-maker Keith Hawkins. No, this was a stranger- a ninety year old stranger. His hair was snow-white, somewhat receded, his face wrinkled with age and wear, his hands trembling, his back bent, his body heavy. His jaw moved like a tortoise’s. In fact, the only recognizable feature about him was his eyes- his dark blue eyes, surrounded by crow’s feet and heavy bags.

Keith was always feeling like an old man. Now the witch had turned him into one.

“Stay calm,” he told his panicking reflection, clawing at his now aged face. “ _Stay calm!”_

He stood there for a few seconds, regarding his new appearance, before he lost it and stampeded away, ruffling his now-white hair and hyperventilating.

“I’m dreaming, I _have_ to be dreaming!” he told himself, his heart going into overdrive. “This can’t be happening to me, I’m _too young for this,_ no, no, no-”

How could he ever appear in public again? What would he say to the girls, to Hunk? How was he going to even run the hat shop? His quivering hands could never hold a needle steady now.

He paused outside in the courtyard, gathering his thoughts. “This _cannot_ be happening.” Another pause. “I’ve got to stay calm!”

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. If anything, this kind of panic was no good for this old body of his. He needed to stay calm and figure out how to undo this mess.

“I have to find her,” he said. “I have to find her and apologize. Maybe then she’ll turn me back.” He looked once more to his reflection in the oval mirror. An old, withered man. “Maybe it’s just temporary. Maybe if I get to sleep…”

The next morning, however, he woke up to find himself still a very, very old man.

“What am I going to do?” he worried as he surveyed himself in the mirror.

Somebody knocked on his door.

“Keith?” Acxa’s voice came from the other side. “You’ve been asleep all morning. Are you alright?”

 _Should I tell them?_ He thought. _No. They’d only get worried. I’ll sort this out myself._

“I have a really bad cold,” he called back. “Don’t come in. I don’t want you to catch it.” He added a cough for emphasis; it wasn’t hard.

“Stars, you sound awful,” she said, alarmed. “Do you need anything?”

“Just rest,” he said. “Mind the shop while I’m go- resting.” He caught himself in the nick of time.

“Sure thing,” she said loyally, and he heard her footsteps as she walked away, and then her muffled voice downstairs as she informed the girls of his condition.

 _That’s one obstacle taken care of,_ he thought, gathering his things in a bundle and tying them together. He drew his heavy blue cloak around his shoulders, drew the hood over his head, took his bundle of things, and, quietly and discreetly, snuck out of the shop and made his way towards the borders of New Haven, towards the Waste. His chances of finding the Witch of the Waste were best there.

His feet began to ache as he reached the bridge near the train tracks, not two blocks away from home. _Oh, stars, this is going to be a bother._

A passing train blew smoke into the air, and coughing racked his frame; he waved the smoke away and began the painstaking process of descending the steps with his rickety knees. A teenager rushed forward, arms extended, stowing a newspaper under the crook of his arm. “Let me help, sir.”

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you,” Keith said as he waved him away.

 _Sir, huh?_ He thought, a bit pleased. _I could get used to that._

He had never really needed rails before. Now, however, he found them a life-line; he held onto them for dear life as he descended on the stairs one by one, and then leaned on them once he had arrived at the bottom as he caught his breath. He looked back up; the teenager was reading the newspaper in the noon sunshine.

“Hey, er,” Keith called up. “Anything- anything new happen? In the news?” Such stupid phrasing, but Keith had never been a great orator. Hopefully the kid would excuse his age.

He’d noticed, as he’d walked past, people acting extra excited, shoving each other and whispering, men walking in groups, muttering anxiously. He had an inkling of what was going on, but he had to make sure.

“They still can’t find that foreign prince, sir,” the teenager said politely. “His father’s been threatening to declare war on us if he doesn’t find him in a month, and it looks like he’s going to make good on those claims. The draft’s started. Looks like we’ll have another war to deal with.”

No wonder all the young men were breaking out in hives. Keith chuckled to himself.

 _I’m too old for their wars now,_ he thought with glee.

“Politicians,” Keith groused. “You know what I think? I think that stupid prince has gone off and eloped with some tavern girl in some foreign country, and all this fuss is for nothing.”

That had been one of Ezor’s theories, and, to be frank, it was more plausible than a foreign kidnapping. Galran Norland, the prince’s country, was too boring and military for anything thrilling like that.

“Sure, sir,” the teenager said obligingly, but Keith knew from the tone of his voice that he was just being decent.

Keith thanked the teenager and went off on his way, mind still on drafts and princes and moronic politicians.

He noticed something different in the way people looked at him now; there was a certain respect he’d never gotten as Keith the young hat-maker. Soldiers- the same soldiers who would’ve harassed him the day before- now tipped their hats to him and muttered “Morning, sir” in his wake, eyes on the ground. Men and women twenty and thirty years his seniors cleared the way for him to pass, never jostling him or stepping on his feet like they would have done. On the tram, several young people fell over themselves to offer him a seat when he took his usual place by the pole.

 _There are some perks to being old, I’ll admit it,_ he thought, as he dismounted from the tram. _This is the life._

Then he got tired after five minutes of sun, and hated being old all over again. Walking felt like an eternity. Just one day before he would’ve made an entire round of the town on foot in less than three hours. Now it was late afternoon, and he wasn’t even in the outskirts of the Wastes.

By some miracle he had the town behind him, climbing up a grassy hill and gripping his back (it was aching most audaciously). He reached its peak; a shepherd’s house was at the top, overlooking the town. The shepherd’s wife was among the sheep, and the shepherd himself was loading bales of hay onto a cart that seemed to be drawn by a very, very tired donkey (Keith emphasized, painfully).

“Father!” called the shepherdess. “Father, where are you going on foot like that?” It occurred to him that she was talking to him. Keith gulped. That woman was, at the very least, five years his elder.

“I’m off to visit my sister,” he wheezed.

“Where? Maybe we can help, can’t we, Matt?” she cast a look at her husband.

Matt scratched his tawny head. “Sure thing. Where you going?”

“The Wastes.”

“The Wastes!” they exclaimed in unison.

Matt looked to Keith with much horror. “What’s a man your age doing out in the Wastes?”

“Matt!” the wife said reproachfully.

“I’m visiting my sister,” Keith said resolutely.

Matt exchanged a look with his wife.

“Well, I’ve got a sister living…somewhere in the Wastes myself, can’t complain,” he said. “I was going north anyway. How about you ride in the back of my cart?”

Better than Keith would’ve hoped for, and they weren’t asking too many questions. “That would be fine, thanks.”

Matt helped Keith into the back of his cart, then took his place behind the reins. “There you are, sir.”

The cart went on its way. “Nice of you and your wife to help me out,” he said, rather talkative in his old age.

“My wife?” Matt said. “Oh, Nyma? No, she isn’t my wife, she’s my business partner. Our third partner, Rolo, is down in town running errands.”

“…Business partner,” Keith echoed, thinking of the sheep.

Matt seemed to know what he was thinking. “The sheep are just a cover.”

“A cover for what?”

Matt smiled in a very mysterious, mischievous sort of way, and did not say anything. Keith found himself not very concerned with whatever Matt, Nyma, and the absent Rolo were cooking up together in their shack with their sheep. He decided not to look too closely at the hay, either.

 _So this is the kind of folk you meet in the Wastes,_ he thought to himself.

 Eventually they reached a fork in the rough road, and with much hesitation on Matt’s side, they parted ways, Keith assuring Matt that he had it well under control from here. He watched Matt and the cart’s receding figure on the horizon before setting off, in the waning sunlight, deeper into the wild meadows of the Wastes. The altitude made the area quite foggy; so much so that Keith couldn’t quite see his progress. However, when some of the mist cleared, he realized he could still see New Haven from where he was.

“I’ll never find the Witch at this rate,” he complained to himself as he sat down on the hard ground, unhappily eating a meal of bread and cheese he had packed for himself. He sat there for a while, gathering his strength to make his journey, worrying about where he would stay for the night (there were no signs of civilization for miles, let alone an inn), when something caught his eye.

A few yards away was a small mountain bush, blooming with small, pinkish flowers. However, sticking out of it was a long, foreign-looking branch, lodged into the ground.

“That would make a good walking stick,” he said out loud, and pushed himself to his feet, cursing at his back pain. He hobbled over to the bush and took a firm hold on the bough; it was smooth and varnished, obviously not some wild branch. With a few tiring tugs Keith heaved it out of the bush and pulled it upright; he realized it was longer than he’d expected, and, in addition, seemingly belonging to a hidden scarecrow.

It was outfitted in what would have been fancy clothing; time and circumstances, however, had made the shabby as they hung off of the scarecrow’s stick arms, which extended on either side looking rather eerily like a crucifixion, complete with little gloves and a lime-green ascot. Its head was a white turnip, on which was carved a crude grinning face, with a little pipe sticking out of the mouth. The whole look was rounded off with a shabby, dusty top hat of the same purple satin as the suit.

Keith did not know what possessed him to talk to it; he should have left it there and gone on his way. Still, he spoke.

“Your head’s a turnip,” he informed the scarecrow. He smiled to himself. “I hate turnips. I guess I’m going to call you Turnip Head.”

And then, since it might as well have happened, Turnip Head hopped empathetically and did a little bow, as if thanking him. So Keith had just unearthed a magical scarecrow.

 _Huh,_ he thought.

“Can you do me a favor?” Had he been this talkative when he was young? “Could you find me a walking stick?”

Turnip Head hopped mutely in place and then set off down the hill, disappearing. Keith took that as a no, and, sighing to himself and muttering about freak shows, set off in the opposite direction. Maybe he could find another “shepherd” like Matt if he went deeper in. He had mentioned a sister in the Wastes… perhaps…

He had been walking for quite some time- the sun had half-disappeared in the distant horizon, and the world was bathed in warm golden light that took the edge off of the mountain wind- when he heard a familiar _thud_ noise and looked back to see Turnip Head hopping back to him, a walking stick hooked onto one of his arms.

Keith stopped in his tracks; Turnip Head did the same, doing a little tremor motion that caused the walking stick to fall right into Keith’s outstretched hands. It was well-weighted, with a crow’s head handle, and rather fancy; Keith had not the faintest idea where Turnip Head had gotten it from, but he wasn’t going to go asking him. It wasn’t like Turnip Head could tell him.

“Thanks,” Keith said graciously. “Do you know anywhere I could stay the night, by the way?”

Turnip Head might have nodded; Keith wasn’t sure. He then hopped past him and along the path briskly; Keith scurried after him, smiling slyly.

 _I’ve become quite cunning in my old age,_ he thought.

The sun steadily sank lower and lower, and the sky melted from riotous pink and orange to a cool, chilly blue. The mist thickened. Keith did his best to match Turnip Head’s pace; it was difficult, as Turnip Head was surprisingly quick considering he only had one leg.

The paths became rougher, more difficult to navigate, before disappearing altogether, leaving Keith to pick his way through grass and rocks. Every once in a while the effort would prove too much for him and he’d have to take five, clutching a stitch in his side, joints creaking, as Turnip Head waited patiently for him to resume.

It seemed it would be dark before Turnip Head found his destination; Keith could only resignedly hope there would be no mountain lions to contend with, as there was no going back to New Haven now.

Turnip Head quickened his pace and disappeared over the crest of a hill. Keith could not keep up, and instead dragged himself up, wondering if the scarecrow had abandoned him. He could hear, distantly, a sort of heavy, rhythmic _thump, thump,_ like some kind of march, along with puffing of steam.

He then got to the top of the hill, and saw where Turnip Head was taking him. Far ahead, clumping forward, was a moving castle. It trundled along on spindly metal legs, more a village compressed into one building than a castle. A domed roof clashed with brick chimneys, sheds, proper rooms, all in one huge monstrosity of a castle that seemed to be held together by sheer will –and magic- alone. This was the building so often glimpsed in New Haven’s windows and whispered about in its streets; this was the building that had caused so much talk, so much gossip, so much speculation. This was-

“Shiro’s castle,” Keith breathed. He raised his voice for Turnip Head, thoroughly intimidated. “This was not what I meant when I asked for a place to stay!”

Turnip Head seemed to be suddenly hard of hearing. He hopped further, Keith hurrying after him, until they were right beneath the castle’s odd, claw-like feet. He could not believe this, but his disbelief was slightly put aside by his concern for the fact that his lungs might stop working, as he was evidently too old for this type of effort. Turnip Head slowed slightly; falling a yard or so behind; Keith held a stitch in his side and followed suit, and realized that, protruding from beneath the castle’s underbelly was a small door and a few steps that led to it.

“I go in from there?” he turned and asked Turnip Head, jogging desperately to keep up.

Turnip Head jumped a little faster and came closer, as if spurring him on. Keith stumbled forward, barely keeping up with the castle’s thundering pace, creaking and bellowing and puffing all around him from the castle’s unseen engines. He felt a pressure at his back and saw Turnip Head help him, somehow, onto the steps.

He held on to the rusted rails on either side for dear life; the rushing air whipped at him and his travelling cloak, and his hat was snatched from the top of his head.

“My hat!” he exclaimed; Turnip Head stopped hopping and disappeared into the fog, and for a few minutes Keith waited, looking to see some sign of his unlikely friend. Soon enough, he saw a stick figure reemerge with the familiar shape of his hat hooked on one of his hands. Turnip Head got close enough for Keith to grab it with his trembling hand.

“Thank you,” Keith said gratefully. As Turnip Head began to fall behind, he raised his voice. “For everything!”

He might have been imagining, but he thought he saw a twinkle in one of Turnip Head’s carved eyes. Tucking his cloak tighter around himself, he grasped the doorknob and found that it turned easily. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, into dry warmth and sudden, muffled quiet, letting the door shut behind him.

He was in Shiro’s moving castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's chapter three!! I know y'all want some sheith interactions, haha, but you'll have to wait for pacing reasons. I hope you guys liked Matt and Nyma's cameo! I think you can guess by now who Turnip Head is, but I'm not saying just in case you don't, haha.  
> My fingers are much better, thanks to everyone who wished me well! And, of course, thanks to all of those who left kudos and comments, they mean so so much to me and make my day!

**Author's Note:**

> I should update daily, unless, of course, I can't get my hands on a reliable internet connection, haha. I hope you like this! Howl's Moving Castle means a lot to me, so I put a lot of effort in this (meaning I outlined this shit). So let's celebrate sheith being technically canon with this.  
> I know, to properly parallel sheith, that Shiro should be Sophie and Keith Howl, but 1) I like it better this way, 2) I don't care. They can both have starlight hair in the end. WHO CARES.


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